Ode To Holmes
by T Stark
Summary: When Sherlock gets word that John is in danger, he jumps at the chance when a man claims to have a way to save him. But it will include Sherlock signing up for an experimental process. One which is far from perfect. And when secrets are revealed, the detective finds himself drifting farther and farther away from the man he was.
1. Chapter 1: The End of an Era

**Yes! First crossover~**

**Not much to say, really. But there was this person on Omegle, and I meant to send my RP prompt but ended up sending the link to this instead. So if you actually clicked on it, person, it was a mistake, I swear, I wasn't trying to advertise. o.O**

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There was something John wasn't telling him.

Sherlock had returned only three months ago. For three months, the press had never given him a moment of peace, always badgering him for details. "Why did you do it?" "Where did you go for three years?" "Can you prove that you're really not a fraud?" It had all gotten incredibly repetitive.

John had been upset at first. Incredibly upset. There had been times when Sherlock had been certain that the bruise on his jaw would never heal. But, though it had taken time, John had understood why he'd had to be lied to for so long. But Sherlock never told him just how close to Hell those long three years had been. He didn't need to know.

"Thirty-seven." Sherlock's voice came smoothly as he circled a mess of blood on the light blue carpet of a hotel. "Male, more than likely. Clearly finances weren't a problem, that's obvious by just looking at the room he was able to afford. High ranking Starfleet member, more than likely."

Lestrade stood behind him, hands in pockets. "Yeah, we know all that. You're just showing off now." He pretended to be annoyed when Sherlock gave a shrug. But dammit, he'd missed that arrogant smirk, the sound of details being pulled out of things no one should have been able to notice. "Name's Commander Oliver Springs. His wife was found dead just last week, that could be why he did it." Sherlock only shook his head.

Honestly, was that their main focus? The "Why"? "Well, no doubt of it. But that still doesn't tell us how a man can shoot himself and not only survive, but walk away with what appears to be no injuries." Sherlock made his way to the corner, kneeling beside a length of rope. "Did anyone touch this?" Lestrade informed that it had been there when they'd arrived. "He tried to hang himself. But it didn't work. He got frustrated. Threw it over here."

"What do you mean, it didn't work?" John remained relatively silent at crime scenes nowadays. But from time to time, he offered up a question or opinion. "Rope slipped, or something?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Knot was tight. Had it tied to the rafter there." He grabbed the stool which had been kicked to the side, using it to look over the beam to which he'd referred. "No sign of bending. The conditions seem ideal. He should have strangled to death." Climbing down, he began muttering, more to himself than anyone else. "So then how did he manage to survive...?" Back to the blood, then the bullet hole in the wall. "Shot himself in the abdomen. He wanted to have last thoughts. He wanted to suffer." Then, silence. It didn't make any sense. He would have to run tests on the blood. See if it even was Springs' in the first place. But even if it was, what had happened to the body?

The case wasn't discussed on the cab ride home. In fact, nothing was discussed whatsoever. John had learned to recognise when he wasn't meant to speak. Even after all this time.

"So you really have no idea?" He spoke only after they'd been back at Baker Street for the better part of an hour. "About Oliver Springs. You don't know what happened?"

Sherlock was seated in his armchair, which had never been cleared away. "Just give me time." His hands were in front of his lips, fingertips pressed lightly together in that signature fashion of his.

John, barely aware he was doing so, sat across from him. "Yeah, but he couldn't have just gotten up. People don't walk away from that sort of thing." He watched as Sherlock looked him over. "What?" He had that look on his face. The one he got when he was trying to read someone.

"You're anxious." Leaning forward, elbows resting on knees. "You're hiding something, something important. You don't want me to find out, but you know it's only a matter of time."

Silence. A long, thought-filled silence. He was right, of course. When wasn't he? John chose his words carefully. After all, how was one meant to tell something like this to a man who had such difficulty expressing and understanding? Bluntly, he supposed. "I'm going back to Afghanistan." Said so softly, despite his best efforts.

He was... "And when were you planning on telling me this?" Sherlock made sure to keep himself together. But this new information, it nearly killed him.

John ran his fingers through his hair as he got to his feet. "I don't know, Sherlock." He closed his eyes for a moment. "I decided on it when you were... When you were gone. And don't you get upset with me about this. At least I'm not convincing you that I'm dead." It was a low blow, and he knew it. He didn't even know why he'd said it. Sherlock hadn't deserved that, he'd barely said a word. "Sorry. Sorry, I... I didn't mean..."

His words had clearly hit Sherlock hard. But he didn't mention it. He never did. Instead, a question. "How long until you go?" Tone flat, struggling to keep it that way.

"About two weeks." John moved over to the window, watched the streets of London below. "I leave the Thursday after next."

Two weeks. That was how long they had. That was how long it would be before Sherlock was alone again. But this time, it would be John who went off to fight, and he who would be left to sit in the flat. Upon his return, John had shouted that Sherlock would never know the amount of pain he'd gone through. Now, he surely would.

No words were spoken for what felt like ages. Though, to be completely honest, it was probably less than an hour. And, though one would never imagine it, Sherlock was the one to break the silence. Not saying much. Just three simple words, which held so much meaning. "I'll miss you." The baritone quiet, as if ashamed to be showing so much emotion.

John glanced over from where he'd begun making tea in the kitchen, his volume equaling that of his flatmate.

"I'll miss you, too, Sherlock."


	2. Chapter 2: Departure and a Bargain

Today was the day. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Sherlock stood in the doorway, John just outside. The army doctor looked like just that, in full uniform, posture instinctively straight.

Looking directly into Sherlock's eyes- Though Sherlock almost never made eye contact with anyone- John couldn't help but hesitate before he responded. "To be honest? No. I mean, I just got you back. Just when everything was starting to be normal again..." He shook his head. "If I could change my mind now..."

Then, something odd. Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder. "You're doing what's right. Going off to save lives, not once but twice. Takes more courage than most men show in their whole life. Certainly more than I could manage." It took everything he had to keep himself from breaking. This must have been what a parent felt like before seeing their child off. Or their spouse. "Just promise me," How could he word this? "Promise you'll return home safely."

"Sherlock, it's unpredictable over there. You know I can't-"

"Please." On very few occasions did the great Sherlock Holmes beg. Sometimes for his drugs. Sometimes before he had to disappear into the shadows for years on end. And now a third time. Before his best friend went off to war.

John Watson going off to war. The idea, though certainly not implausible, did seem unreal. Sherlock had been counting down the days, dreading having to sleep, as it took more time away. So he'd remained awake for days on end, staring out the window, or plucking the strings of his violin. It was always so silent. And it would continue to be silent from this moment on.

The request, in all its desperation, caught John off guard. For a second or two, he had to make sure that Sherlock was being serious. But it hardly took a moment for him to know. He wouldn't joke about this sort of thing. "I... I promise."

A nod in response. Very somber, very official. After a moment of simply taking in the man before him, Sherlock gave a salute, which John returned with a strained, near heartbroken smile on his face. He departed from that front step then, got into the car which had been waiting for him. Sherlock was out on the pavement as he watched it go, ignoring the wind which bit through the thin fabric of his shirt. John was looking out the back window, trying to fit in every last second before he lost sight of the man he quite possibly could never see again.

Days turned into weeks, weeks slowly turning to months. Just over two months. Sixty-eight days. 1,632 hours. 97,920 minutes. 5,875,200 seconds. It had been 5,875,200 seconds of hell. Sherlock understood now what John had been going through. And this was only a small portion of the time he'd endured. He hadn't heard anything, not since the day he left. No word from John, saying he was all right. His eyes were closed when he heard the knock at the door. Not Mrs Hudson, she entered after knocking, without invitation. Client? Probably not. He hadn't been able to bring himself to work on any cases, and his mind had paid the price. It was always working overtime now.

He considered not getting up. What was the point? But he forced himself to, not caring about the fact that he hadn't changed clothes in three days. His hair was a wreck, black curls falling in front of his eyes. And he'd been prepared to shout at the man- Definitely a man- who would be there. But he stopped. This man... No. No, it couldn't be. God, no. Please no... "Sherlock Holmes?"

He nearly broke down as he heard his name. But Sherlock kept that strong, confident facade. "He's dead, isn't he?" Dammit, his voice trembled. But honestly, he didn't care. It didn't matter.

But then, something he hadn't expected. "Not yet." And those two words gave him a hope he hadn't felt in so long. But it would soon be torn down again. "He's been taken prisoner by enemy forces." The man looked Sherlock over for a moment, took in his thin frame.

"Where is he?" The detective was demanding answers, that deadly look in his eyes. The one he got when he was confronting Moriarty, the one he got whenever John was in danger. "Tell me where he is!" Shouting, probably worrying Mrs Hudson.

The man wasn't phased. "You're not going there, Mr Holmes." Sherlock was about to protest. Like hell he wasn't going there! John was being held captive in some damn desert, he wasn't going to just sit there! But he was cut off before he could. "Not yet."

Not yet? "What do you mean, not yet?" Sherlock furrowed his brow, studying this man who seemed to know something, who asked if he could come in.

Sherlock stepped aside, gesturing to the sofa. Not John's armchair. That was off limits. "My name is Dr Arik Soong." He took a seat, Sherlock pulling his chair up in front of the stranger. "Now, Dr Watson, as I'm sure you've gathered, is in incredible danger. And I also don't doubt that you want nothing more than to make sure that he comes home safely." A hesitation, noticing the look of suspicion on Sherlock's face. "It's too dangerous for you to go now. But, with my help, I feel I can make it so you can."

Sherlock flew to his feet. He could save him. He could save John. "How? Tell me. Anything it takes."

Dr Soong was doing a better job at keeping calm than he was. "I've been working on a new procedure. Genetic engineering. The previous subjects have proven to be huge successes. Near superhuman."

"What, like- like Captain America?" No, this man was mental. But if there was a chance... "What would I have to do?" He barely whispered this.

Leaning forward slightly, Dr Soong pulled out his mobile, showing Sherlock various diagrams on the screen. "It's simple, really. We could have you ready to go within the week."

It seemed... completely logical. The graphs, the data, it all made perfect sense. And, as he handed the phone back, he spoke once more with confidence. "When can we start?"


	3. Chapter 3: Metamorphosis

It began the very next day. Sherlock arrived at the designated location, which was in a small town just east of Bristol. After being debriefed, he now stood beside Dr Soong in one of the laboratories. Various machines, including heart monitors, IVs, and some others which even Sherlock couldn't identify. All with tubes and cables, and a metal table in the midst of it. It looked like something out of a bad horror film, really. "You know, it's not too late to change your mind." The doctor offered. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Of course."

"You have to understand, the process it still... imperfect. There could still be side effects." He flipped through some documents on his clipboard, making sure everything was in order.

Sherlock's reply was simple. "But will it save him? Will I be able to save John?" A nod, a simple "Yes". So Sherlock looked around at the equipment. The equipment which would change his life, the very fabric of what he was. And he took a step closer to the table. "Then what are we waiting for?"

He felt like some child's Biology experiment. Strapped down on the table, at least forty cords attached to his body, along with an IV in each arm. "Now, I can't say that it won't be painful. But in the end, it will be worth it." Sherlock nodded as best he could. "I'm starting it in three... two... one." The warning didn't help much. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat for a second as a fire coursed through his veins. No, worse than fire. It felt like acid. Finally, he squeezed his wide eyes shut as he let out a scream, the sound of which he hadn't the faintest idea his voice could manage. He could feel every cell in his body being affected, being twisted and contorted into something new. He was thrashing against his bonds, wishing in this moment for the sweet relief of death. Oh, what he would have given for it all to end, right then and there. The heart monitor was running wild. And he was certain that he wouldn't survive. He would surely go into cardiac arrest, his heart would give out in him. But it persisted, continued beating faster and harder as seemingly distant encouragements of "You're doing well, Mr Holmes" and "Sherlock, stay with me" reached his ears.

And then it stopped. And his world plunged into darkness.

Sound. That was what he first became aware of. Sounds like a hospital. But too loud, too clear for just waking up. Sitting bolt upright, he half expected it all to have been a dream. But when Sherlock opened his eyes, he could see dozens of sleeping forms resting in beds around him. Some sort of medical ward, definitely.

But the real revelation came when he stood. He appeared to have been dressed in a pair of black trousers- Not his own, and no shirt- while he'd been unconscious. And when he looked down at himself, he no longer saw the thin, under fed frame which he'd become accustomed to. He had always been strong, of course, but now one could actually tell by looking at him. He must have gone up one- No, two suit sizes. And he could manage only one thought.

It worked. It bloody worked.

"Mr Holmes!" Sherlock's attention moved to the doorway, where Dr Soong was once more looking over information on his clipboard. "Didn't expect you to be awake yet."

Having to force the shock out of his mind, Sherlock didn't waste a second. "Where is he? How can I get to him?"

"You can't go just yet." There was a touch of hesitance in his voice. And in the end, Sherlock reacted just as he assumed he would.

"What the hell are you talking about?!" Shouting, a rage materializing in his core unlike anything he'd ever experienced. His hand slammed against the metal wall, realising just before the impact that it probably wasn't his best idea.

The wall dented.

There was the shock again. His gaze moved from Dr Soong, to his hand, back again. Sherlock's expression, which he didn't bother to try and disguise, was that of confusion, of near terror. "This is what I mean. You haven't learned to control your strength yet. If I let you go off on your own now, you could end up doing more harm than good. You might even end up killing Dr Watson while you're trying to help him."

Oh. He hadn't thought of that. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, which he now discovered had been cut short. "How long have I been unconscious? Three days? I've waited too long already. John could be being tortured right now, maybe dead. You want me to go through some sort of training? Fine. But how long will it take?" It was clear that Sherlock had no intention of losing this argument. That Dr Soong shouldn't even bother to try.

"Four days, three if you continue doing as well as you have been."

"I'll do it in two." That arrogant tone coming forth again. "Two days of training. That's the most I'll allow. After that, you will tell me where John is and how I can save him. Do I make myself clear?" There was an unsettling malice in his voice which he did not recognise. Dangerous. Perhaps deadly.

Though he had not expected it, Dr Soong nodded in agreement. "Two days. But you have to understand, you no longer need food nor sleep. If you insist on doing this in such a short time frame, you'll be working almost nonstop."

He'd be damned if he disagreed.

The two days passed quickly. Even with Sherlock never having a moment to himself. And just as it had been predicted, he was adjusting extremely well. His already superior mind was only an added advantage. The procedure hadn't affected that aspect of him. And that engine which had always been running out of control, which had caused for so much taunting and isolation in his lifetime, was finally being managed. And he'd never felt more at ease with it.

"He'll be here." Dr Soong had a map laid out on the desk in his office. "I would anticipate at least fifty guards. Dr Watson won't be the only prisoner there. Get them all out if you can, but remember that he's the main focus. You won't be able to use your real name. We'll have to give you an alias." He removed his reading glasses, looking him over for a moment.

Sherlock only rolled his eyes. This was sounding far too James Bond for his liking. "And I assume you have that picked out, as well." He shook his head, regaining that near perfect posture he'd so recently acquired.

Rolling up the map, which Sherlock had surely committed to memory by this point, Dr Soong placed a supportive hand on the taller man's shoulder. "I wish you all the best of luck," And then, his codename.

"Khan."


	4. Chapter 4: Pity the Living

There was no time wasted before Sherlock set off. But he wasn't just going to fly to Afghanistan empty handed. Even though he was certain that he could crush a man's skull with his bare hands, John would never allow him to hear the end of it if he went without at least bringing a gun.

Everything was going to be fine in the end, he had to remind himself of that. He was going to go, he was going to rescue John, and they would return home. They would go back to working on cases, just like always. Granted, John would, without a doubt, question Sherlock's changed appearance. But he would explain everything. And it wouldn't be as if he would be able to deny the fact when he saw him.

But he didn't make it to the flat.

A photograph grabbed his attention. The front of a newspaper, with a familiar face. Sherlock snatched up the paper, eyes quickly scanning over it. That headline. He must have read it wrong. He had to have. But he read it again over and over, and still it said the same thing.

_Memorial for Fallen Soldier_

Those four words. The four words above the photograph of the man he'd been so intent on saving. No, it couldn't be him. It had to be someone who looked similar. John couldn't be... He couldn't even think the word. It was impossible. But the article was clear. It said his name. It said how he'd been tending to a wounded companion when there was an unexpected attack. It said how he left behind a sister. It did not say that he also left behind a man who needed him.

But there was one thing which struck him more than anything.

_Dr Watson was killed in an unanticipated firefight two weeks ago._

Two weeks ago. Before Sherlock had been approached. Before the offer. John hadn't been held captive at all. It had all been a lie. Every word of it.

Breaking, Sherlock tossed the paper, watched as the pages fell to the pavement. And, though he was unaware of the fact at the time, it would only reveal more tragedy. For that was when bad turned to worse.

Four more faces. All of which he recognised. Scrambling over, he held onto the paper as if his life depended on it. A second article, this one equally as horrible as the last.

_Investigation Continues on Quadruple Homicide_

_Authorities at Scotland Yard are continuing to look into the details regarding the murders of Molly Hooper (34), Gregory Lestrade (50), Margaret Hudson (76), and Mycroft Holmes (44). The victims were all found in the disused fire station outside of London. Each had been shot once in the heart. It is unclear if their deaths are related to their connections to the detective Sherlock Holmes, who has not been seen since the day before the incident._

Dead. All of them. Every single person he held most dear. Killed the day after he left. It all made sense now. Or at least in part. Sherlock, in an act which would be described only as pure, heartbroken sentiment, clutched the page to his chest, fought back tears. This couldn't be happening. It was impossible. They couldn't be gone. The only five people he cared about, the only people who cared about him.

He'd been lied to. They had taken him, toyed with his emotions. But why? What had been the purpose? To pull him away, turn him into this... this science experiment, only to kill the few people he had. What had the bastard wished to accomplish?

It was pointless, but he began racing down the street. He had to prove himself wrong. He had to prove the papers wrong. Because they couldn't be dead. They couldn't be, it was impossible. Baker Street was the first stop. He picked the lock to Mrs Hudson's flat. Empty, no one there for days. 221B next. Everything exactly as he'd left it. No calls on the answerphone. Nothing from John to tell him he was okay. Scotland Yard. Lestrade's name taken off the door of his office. The Diogenes Club. No sign of his brother. Bart's morgue. The paperwork Molly had been going on about relocated.

No sign of any of them.

Sherlock thought back to the day he'd been strapped to that table. Of how he'd yearned for death to relieve the pain. This was even worse. He would gladly suffer through an entire lifetime in that lab if it meant bringing them back.

But he wasn't going to be able to do that. Nor would he be able to put an end to his life. That had clicked into place, as well. Suicide attempts would prove unsuccessful. And he didn't even sleep anymore. Even then, he couldn't escape.

The sun ended up setting, and Sherlock had been lingering in an alleyway for hours. He could only keep repeating the words in his head: They're gone. They're all gone.

He was alone. He'd been alone growing up, most of his life, really. But even then, he'd had his brother. Even if they didn't get on very well, they'd cared for each other. And now he didn't even have that. Because Mycroft was dead. Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, and John. All of them, every one. This had to be a dream. Some terrible nightmare. And he would wake up any minute now in his bed, and John would be in the kitchen making tea. After all, genetic engineering? Superhuman abilities? It was ridiculous. But he knew it was real. Dreams couldn't hurt this much.

And Dr Soong. This was his doing, it had to be. Why else would he lie, tell him that John was alive, when he wasn't? But the reasoning behind it all was still obscure. But as he lifted his head from his hands, Sherlock thought back to a certain case. To something which had turned out to be something other than what was originally thought. A single, German word.

_Rache._

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**Shout out to Nausicaa of the Spirits for figuring it out before Sherlock did~**


	5. Chapter 5: The Beginning of a Miscreant

He couldn't just run into this blind, he knew. If he wanted to do this, he would need to formulate a plan. And he certainly couldn't do it alone. There were seventy-two others. Others who surely had been tricked in the same way as he had. Others who shared his abilities, who would be able and willing to fight beside him. And anyone who dared block the path to success? Well, they wouldn't get the chance to do so again.

John wouldn't have wanted this. None of them would have. But dammit, he'd stopped caring about that. Because John was dead. They all were dead, they couldn't protest. They couldn't tell him how disappointed they were in him. They would never say anything again.

The security was easy enough to get rid of. They would approach him, and he would simply take their head, slam it against the wall without even so much as a change in expression. This happened at least ten times. Each was killed immediately, they wouldn't have felt much pain. It did leave a bit of a mess, though. Some blood staining the floor. He stole one of the keyrings off a body, the idea being that it would be quicker than picking the locks.

The first room he came to, the first door he opened. A woman sitting on the bed, looking at a handful of photographs. Average height, blonde hair pulled back. "Those of your family?" He spoke smoothly.

She looked up at him, obviously recognising his build and overall appearance as another subject. "Y- yeah. Yeah, my husband and my kids. Two sons and my daughter."

"What's your name?"

The woman held the photographs close. "Well, technically I'm not supposed to give you my real name. But my codename is Dita."

"Well, Dita, I'm sorry to inform you that your husband and children have more than likely been murdered. Now, if you would like to take revenge on those who killed them, I suggest you follow my instructions." He turned then, face and voice both flat. No emotion.

Flying to her feet, Dita hurried up behind him. "What? What are you saying?"

He didn't roll his eyes, didn't show annoyance. He just kept walking, kept looking straight ahead. "They're dead. Every person in this place, every person who has gone through the experiments, anyone they care about has been killed. I don't know why, but it's happening. My name is Khan, by the way." Not his real name. Never again. It brought back too many memories. Opened up too many wounds. He turned the corner. There were more rooms down that way.

They were greeted with at least twenty more guards. Dita didn't ask questions. She followed Khan's lead, expertly smashing their skulls, snapping their necks. It hardly took two minutes to finish them off. "Not bad." Khan looked over to her, nodding a bit in approval.

A smile, Dita wiping a splatter of blood from her brow. "Could say the same to you."

They gathered the rest of them, split up into groups to save time and possibly lives. Seventy-three men and women. Some of them as young as seventeen years of age. All of them alone in the world. There had been an unspoken election, naming Khan as their leader. He was the one to piece it together, he was the strongest. "Each group goes in one direction. The commander of each has a mobile. I'll go after Soong. Once he's dead, I will send each of you a text. When you receive it, we all gather here. Do not let anyone stand in your way. If they are not among our forces, they don't get out alive. Are we clear?" Not a single person protested.

Dita came with him. They were alone. And while it was clear that the others had questioned whether or not that would be a good idea, no one had said anything about it. "He'll either be in his office or one of the labs. Could very well be working on someone as we speak. With any luck, he won't know we're coming. I doubt any guards have managed to survive long enough to warn him."

She was quiet for a moment. "But why's he doing this? I mean, he's killing people, knowing that it's going to _really_ upset people who could kill him with their eyes closed. Doesn't seem like a good plan, if you ask me." Dita checked her watch. Thirty minutes since he'd come for her.

Khan shook his head. "I have no idea. But you are right. It's a terrible plan. And he's going to realise it very soon." He stopped, turned to face her. "You go to his office. I'll check the lab. No matter which of us finds him, that will be the last face he sees."

Only a slight hesitation. "I suppose you don't me to tell you to be careful. So I'll go with 'Kick his arse'."

Walking the building alone again. Khan killed another three members of security on his way. And he _enjoyed_ it. He enjoyed it because they deserved it. They had torn his life apart, along with the lives of nearly a hundred other people.

It was the laboratory which had began all of this. The one which he had been strapped down in. And on the table, a man of thirty-seven- And yes, he knew he was exactly that age- being held on that same table, screaming just as Khan himself had been. the doctor hadn't noticed him enter. Not until Khan began destroying the machines. Dr Soong looked over then, horror on his face. "What are you doing?! He'll die!" He hurried over, but Khan simply shoved him away with as much force as he could manage.

Glancing over at the one who was now only writhing in pain. "I think that's exactly what he wants. Given that he's tried twice already." He slowly walked over, putting his hands on either side of the man's face. "Hello, Oliver Springs." Khan had pieced it together after discovering that John and the others had been killed. A man whose wife had died, and afterwards had attempted to kill himself, only to fail despite there being no flaws in the methods. No flaw except himself. He turned Springs' head to the side, and the man gave him a small nod. Telling him that it was okay.

Khan broke his neck.

"Now, I think we have some things to discuss, doctor." Soong hadn't moved. Perhaps he was too afraid, or perhaps his head had impacted the wall enough to disorientate him.

He did look terrified. "Mr Holmes. K- Khan. Listen to me. You- you're just having a reaction to the procedure. Your mind is amplifying your anger and desperation. It- it's not an uncommon response. Like I told you, there are side effects, this is one-" He was cut off by Khan's hand on his throat.

"Is that what you think this is?" He raised Soong's feet off the ground, his grip tight on his neck. "A side effect, nothing more? You told me he was alive in order to lure me into this Hell. And even when you got what you wanted, you proceeded to take away everyone that ever mattered to me." He was almost growling, gaze hard. "That's what you did to the rest of them. You removed their reasons for leaving so that you would never lose your test subjects. Now tell me why you wanted this is the first place." Khan released just enough to allow him to speak.

Soong was doing everything he could to breathe. "I- I just wanted to see it I c- could!" Another strained gasp. "They- they paid me- it's my job! I w- I work for the g- government, th-they told me t- to take pr- precautions!"

So that was it, then. Experiments done to create super soldiers. It was like Baskerville all over again. Except this was real. And this had cost at least a hundred lives. And now he and the others were going to be seen as fugitives. Perhaps even war criminals. Khan had the answers he needed now. So he once again tightened his grip. And just before he watched the life leave Soong's eyes, he whispered six words. "Send my regards to Jim Moriarty."

The text was sent, the groups reassembled into one. Khan explained to them what had happened, what had been said. "While we have, today, shown just how capable we are, we most certainly are not immortal. They will come for us. And when they do, they will be armed heavily enough to kill each and every one of us." He was pacing, hands at his sides. "Miss Dita formerly worked at a Starfleet base. And she has agreed to secure us a ship. In this time, we are hunted. We are outcasts. But if we could live to see another, perhaps we could live in peace." He turned to Dita. "Anything else, Captain?" He offered her the slightest of smiles.

"First Officer." She corrected him, causing a touch of confusion to cross his face. "I'm not captain material. I'd get us all killed. You took charge here, and we all survived. That's the kind of person we need in control, wouldn't you say?" And thus it was decided.

It took a week of hiding. But in time, the entire crew was gathered in the ship. "We are," Khan stood before the crowd, more emotion in his voice than what usually came after the experiments. "Alone in the universe. We number just seventy-three. We have no families. No friends. No one who will miss us, nor whom we will miss. The world is against us for the time being. I have, as your Captain, vowed to protect each and every one of you. If we must live with this curse, then we will do so together. For we are the only family any of us has. We fought to get this far, and we can only hope that we will not be forced to fight again. Sleep has become but a memory for us. But we will, if only for one last time, be able to rest, unaware of the time which will pass. Just when we will awake, I cannot say. But when we do, it will hopefully be into a future in which we will not have to fear being hunted down. One which does not know the horrors we have seen. So I only ask that you all trust me when I assure you that this is for the best. And that it has been, and always will be, an honour knowing you."

And each of the seventy-two figures standing before him saluted nearly in unison.

Khan was doing one last patrol, making sure that everyone was safely in their designated cryo tube. "Having second thoughts, Commander?" He didn't turn around to face Dita. Didn't even look at her. He'd recognised her pattern of footsteps. "I'm afraid to say that it's rather late to do that." He continued walking.

She was right behind him, speaking softly. "What you said... about what the world will be like when we wake up. Do you really believe it?"

A hesitation. "No." There wasn't a use lying to her. "I do not. The human race is savage. I have seen men kill one another in cold blood. The most unthinkable and violent murders you can imagine. And I have seen the faces of those responsible. Deranged in their minds, but human, nonetheless." He shook his head as he rested his hand on the cryo tube which would, in a matter of minutes, become his own. "The world will never accept us. Not really. But there is a chance I could be incorrect. And even if I am, this still will allow us a new beginning. A way to leave behind the lives we now wish to flee from." Dita could only nod, placing a hand on his shoulder before she left.

Khan glanced around one last time, and in those precious few seconds before he lost connection with consciousness, he silently bid farewell to who he used to be.

Upon his return, John had shouted that Sherlock would never know the amount of pain he'd gone through. Now, Khan knew all too well.


	6. Epilogue: Ode to Harrison

It was cold. Why was he so cold? He let out a small groan as he tried to unfog his mind. There was a presence beside him. A set of footsteps. John. It had to be John. And that meant that it had been a dream. Nothing more than a nightmare. John was alive. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft. They were all okay.

" 'Khan', it says here." Not John's voice. This one unfamiliar. "That your name?" He finally opened his eyes, sitting up and glancing around. The ship. He was still on the ship. And that meant that it had all been real. The man standing beside him was wearing a Starfleet uniform. "I assumed you're the captain, since you were in the front. I'm Admiral Marcus." Khan pinched the bridge of his nose slightly, closing his eyes. His head was pounding. And Marcus noticed. "It's all right. I know what you must be feeling right now. Those antique cryo tubes have that effect." Antique. So then, that meant... "I'd guess you've been drifting for about three hundred years by now. And if that's the case, I know exactly who you are."

Getting to his feet, Khan was debating whether or not to kill the intruders. But there were a good number of them, with weapons he'd never seen. And he was the only one who had been revived. Marcus continued. "Genetically engineered to be superior in every way. And even before that, a genius. I would get a medal for turning all of you in." He had his hands behind his back.

"But you're not going to." Even after three centuries, his voice worked perfectly. "Otherwise you would have taken us, not woken me up. So, Admiral, if you do not plan on attempting to arrest us, why are you here?"

They stood face to face, Marcus' and Khan's eyes locked onto each other's. "I want you to help me. I can create a false identity for you. Brand new life. And if you agree, I can assure the safety of your crew."

There was a moment of consideration before the handshake. "I hope for your sake that you keep your end of the bargain." And if he didn't, well then there would be consequences.

Marcus nodded. "How's the name James Harrison?" But Khan declined. He said that Harrison was fine. But James was out of the question. "Then what do you want it to be?" And his answer was simple.

"John."

* * *

**And thus ends my first crossover~**

**Hope you guys liked it! Or that it made you cry. That's good, too. Anyway, thanks to Grace for giving me the idea for the whole John Watson/John Harrison thing. She regrets it now, since it hurts her heart, but even so. **


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